“Russell loved that bar,” Asher explained “He’s in its bones. I couldn’t leave it to sit idle and rot in his absence. And it always made good coin—”
Doran held up a hand, his confusion lingering. “I wholly agree with yer, lad,” he began earnestly. “But how is it that ye are openin’ The Axe? Rus left ye the deed?”
“The deed was always mine,” Asher told him, rocking the dwarf back in surprise.
“It was always yers?”
“I had no real use for the place,” Asher said casually, “and Russell saw its potential. I gave it to him in all but deed.”
The dwarf quickly shook his head. “How did I never know this? An’ how did ye come to own The Axe in the first place?”
“It wasn’t always a tavern,” Asher replied cryptically.
“Ah,” the king said with some understanding. “Would this ’ave somethin’ to do with ’em mysterious lot that brought ye into the life o’ the ranger?”
“Perhaps,” Asher said.
Doran waited a moment longer but it appeared the ranger had nothing to add. “Fine,” he huffed. “Keep yer secrets. Givin’ The Axe some new life is a damn good idea,” he added, content to leave Asher’s past where it belonged.
“I noticed you still have his pick-axe.” Asher glanced briefly at Pig’s saddle.
“Aye. It’s broken, but it was his. I ’aven’ found meself able to part with it yet.” The dwarf gave the old weapon a moment’s thought. “I know where it belongs though,” he continued. “If ye puttin’ The Axe back into business, it’s only right that its namesake hangs over the bar.” He licked his lips, still unsure, even in the moment, if he could really give it up. “Ye should take it,” he finally said.
“Only if you promise to meet me there for a drink one day,” Asher countered.
Doran smiled at the thought. “Ye try an’ stop me.”
After an exchange of light-hearted banter, Asher’s tone turned serious. “Will you send for your mother once Grimwhal is liberated?” he asked.
Doran nodded. “Aye. Once I know this place is safe, I’ll ’ave word sent back to Namdhor. I don’ want her campin’ on the wastes while she waits for her home to be cleared out. I’d never hear the end o’ that one.”
“She seemed in good spirits before we left,” Asher observed.
“She has her good days,” the king told him. “She also has her bad days. On the worst o’ those days, I think she blames me for Dak’s death.”
“I’m sure she doesn’t,” Asher offered, his gruff voice the softest it had ever been. “You did everything you could to save him.”
Doran nodded absently, as if he couldn’t wholly agree with the ranger’s statement. “I’ll always be tormented by things I could ’ave done differently, but that’s my burden to live with. Me mother jus’ needs time. That’s all I can give her.”
“Well, for what it’s worth, your brother would be proud of what you’re doing here.”
Doran managed a brief smile while the ranger took a big swig of cider. “Ye’re a good friend, Asher. It’s a comfort to know that it’ll be ye who attends my funeral an’ not the other way around, as I long feared.”
“We have centuries of getting it all wrong before that fateful day, my friend.” Asher raised the flask. “To getting it all wrong.” He took a swig and passed it to the dwarf.
Doran mimicked the ranger and his toast before tasting the drink. “Do ye think I’m doin’ the right thing?” The son of Dorain had wanted to ask that question since setting off from Namdhor, but he dared not voice it to any other.
“You are the king of Dhenaheim now,” Asher replied. “Everything you do is the right thing.”
Doran chuckled to himself. “If only that were true.”
Asher held his hand out for the flask. “You’re referring to your decision to rule from Grimwhal in place of Silvyr Hall.”
The dwarf eyed the ranger. “Ye’ve heard the grumblin’s then, among me kin.”
“There will always be grumblings,” Asher told him. “There will always be those who wish for things to return to the way they were. Some will want their clan identity back. Others will want a clear hierarchy so they know who their lessers are. And then there will be a few who believe their bloodline belongs on a throne. It’s been thousands of years since the children of the mountain knew a reign like yours.”
Doran sighed. “Reclaimin’ the cities o’ Dhenaheim will put more supporters in me camp,” he reasoned. “But rulin’ from Grimwhal has the potential to make me look weak. Silvyr Hall has stood tall over the clans since we abandoned Vengora. Not to mention the silvyr mine it overlooks.”
“Could you not claim Silvyr Hall as your own?”
The king shrugged. “I’ve considered it… a lot. But it wouldn’ feel like mine. It wouldn’ feel like home. Silvyr Hall has ever been in the Battleborn bloodline. If I moved in there an’ took that as me throne, I’d be makin’ more enemies than allies, an’ I need allies everywhere if I’m goin’ to figure out how I rule Dhenaheim. I’m thinkin’ o’ appointin’ marshals to oversee each city.”
“Like lords,” Asher compared.
“Aye. Only without such a grand title. Don’ want ’em gettin’ too big for their boots.”
“How would you choose them?” the ranger enquired.
“I’d be foolish to appoint anyone without the appropriate bloodline. I’ll need a Battleborn for Silvyr Hall, that’s for sure. Commander Rolgoth would do fine. Then I jus’ need to find the highest rankin’ Goldhorn, Hammerkeg…” Doran waved it all away. “Bah! Listen to me! Talkin’ about kingly politics. It’s a web I tell ye. I’m already missin’ the simplicity o’ a full saddlebag, an open road, an’ naught but a big beastie on the other end.”
“If you could,” Asher posed, “would you give all this up for that life?”
Doran didn’t answer straight away, yet he had given the question as much thought as his Silvyr Hall conundrum. “No,” he finally answered, and honestly. “I ran away from
